Ohey goey and delicious, there is nothing like the smell of fudge. Warm and heavy, it is the ultimate comfort food. But too much and the tummy aches. But get just the right amount topped with a little vanilla ice cream and, mmmm, it's a piece of heaven.
Silence is a relative word, because there can be no true absence of any sound unless you live in a vacuum. Your very breath and heartbeat create sound. Silence to me does not mean the absence of sound itself, but the absence of intrusive, glaring cacophony.
My silence is a restful moment of gentle quiet, where I'm at home on the couch, reading a book. Our cat is purring softly in his sleep beside me. I am curled up on the end of the couch with my big fat stuffed cat pillow supporting my back. My husband is across the room on the computer, with only the tapping of keys to break the silence in the room. To me, silence means quiet gentle comfort, where no words are needed.
Cacophony is a chaotic abundance of noises all running into, over, and through each other. But there is something to it. It could be the noise on the battle field where every noise is a blur and adds to the fear and hate. It could be the busyness of a market with merchants shouting over one another and people and things are bumping into each other with little care for the crowd and the noise is part of the excitement and adventure of the market. It could be a large family gathering with everyone under one roof again, the grandkids running down the halls shouting and the adults talking over them as dishes clang in the kitchen and the game roars from one TV and a video game from the other, and the noise means you're home again.
space is something that is waiting to be filled. it is a possibility, something that, because it holds nothing, could hold anything and everything. in this way, it is limitless, profound, and even intimidating.
Ramshackle is a shed, put together by unsure hands. It is a shelter made by children. It seems haphazard, and yet it is sufficent. There is comfort in it's oddity; warmth in its gaps.
thunder is a power that can't be controlled. it is lightnings younger sibling, born only second after. but in a way, thunder is more awe inspiring, more frightening. it is something that fills you, a rumble that echoes through your bones. but it is an unseen power, though it emanates from the heavens, giving it an ethereal quality: godly, almost.
Only once. It is her only form of courtesy, she'll strike you only once. But all the same, lightning has a grace that thunder can only envy. She dances across the sky in a blinding whir of motion, so quick you almost miss her. But sometimes she is there, before you, and you are too stunned to react before she dances away again. She is a moody one. Sometimes she surrounds you with her wild dancing, not caring who or what she may damage as long as she has your attention, and she does. Your hair stands on end as you watch her, you are filled with a sense of fear and awe at her beauty. Other times she keeps far from you, forcing you to focus intensely just to catch a glimpse of her as she dances across some other sky. There is power in her movement, too, and omen. When you see her approaching you from a distance you know good things lie ahead if you can only survive her presence.
Rain has moods and emotions that can shift from anger to nurture in moments. An angry rain can last for days, or only moments. It can lash the earth, drown the fields and overflow the rivers. A gentle rain can nurture the earth, sustain the fields to grow our food. The rain can be a blessing or a curse.
There is a wise old phrase: Everything in moderation. In moderation, the rain keeps the earth alive, fills the rivers and oceans, slakes our thirst. In excess it overflows and drowns. Without it, the earth dies. It also has its' beauty. After a rain there is usually a rainbow.
Colors across the sky, a shy beauty the rainbow is. Never showing a begining or end, she hides her true form, the circle, from all who would seek her treasures. She dances in prismmatic light, in the spray of a waterfall, anywhere something refracts the light. But even knowing the science behind her colorful form, I am always in awe. For what would this world be with out color?
colour is a sign of life, a spark of vitality. it is the rose red blossoming on the cheeks of children playing in the cold. it is the bright orange of leaves clinging to gnarled branches for their lives. it is the buttery yellow that spreads across the sky in the mornings. it is the lush green expanse of fields and forests and everything else that grows under the sun. it is the deepest blue of the ocean where glowing horrors lay waiting. it is the smooth shell of countless clams, their purple treasures stolen by royalty.
How does the Witch Doctor influence your perceptions?
oh e oh ah ah ting tang walla walla bing bang oh e oh ah ah tong tang wally wally bing bang
That is the corus to a song my dad used to sing, "My Friend the Witch Doctor". Of course a Witch Doctor is much more than a song corus. He can be a mean and scary boogy man or just an odd eccentric guy of some native tribe that all the people look to because, despite his oddness he actually has wisdom hidden in his oogidy boogidy talk.
The boogy man is the the shadow under your bed, a being none of us has ever seen with our own eyes, but there are stories... His bright eyes are deep set in his pallid face and his flesh is sallow and hangs limply from his bones, but his muscles are strong and if he gets of hold of you as you climb out of bed he'll never let go. No one knows what the boogy man does to his poor victims, and we would rather not find out. However, we know that he likes to dance, so if you happen to hear music from under your bed use caution when taking midnight trips to the kitchen or bathroom. Or better yet, stay put until morning.
the morning is a time of life and awakening. if each day were a year, the morning would be spring. nothing bad ever happens in the morning, and so the morning is very innocent and idyllic. the morning is the time when the warm fingers of the sun shoo away the comforting cool that is the night, coaxing life into the slumbering world below.
With beautiful sunsets that wash the land in rich warm colors of red and orange and gold. It is a time to snuggle next to the one you love, siting upon the edge of a cliff, and contemplate your new life together.
Marriage. Together. For better or worse, in sickness and in health, in good times and bad, til death do we part. Marriage is a powerful and solemn thing. It's full of laughs and cuddles and oh-so-sweet nothings. It's full hardship and conflict and frustration. The trick is to let the latter be eased by the former. Marriage means you're in it to the end, through thick and thin, no matter what happens. Marriage is compromise, commitment, forever.
A compromise. The word that the cowards adore and the strong dread. It means a sort of middle-point between two requests, like neutral ground declared between two warring points of view. It also means giving up your struggle and settling for some washed-out cowardly exit route. If you're losing, it's great. If you're winning, it's the ultimate betrayal of your honour.
betrayal is an unexpected blow from a friend. the effects of a betrayal reach deeper than any physical pain, and cause a creeping sensation of mistrust to take you over: everyone becomes an enemy, no-one has your trust anymore.
Cupid is the bubbly round friend of a friend of your Mom, who you've always called Auntie and will forever associate with jangling bracelets and warm perfume. She used to pinch your cheek when you were small. She's had more successes than catastrophes, she'll say, laughing. She has a remarkable memory for wedding menus. She insists you phone her after every one of the introductions she's arranged: she wants to know it went well, after all. Because every one of her introductions to date has ended early, she's always been awake when you call. You go on these introductions of hers, because you would like to catch up with her daughter: you have fond memories of her teasing you, once upon a time. There's a silver-framed vacation pic of her on a coffee table: she's smiling, and it's sunny and Fiji. You've asked, but Auntie said, "She's a disappointment. We're not speaking. But I know just the girl for youuu!"
A sigh is a long drawn out vent of frustration. Sometime you just have to let one out to avoid explosion. Or perhaps you've become resigned to your fate. Frustration, anger, resignation a sigh can be any of these. And probably more if I cared to stop and really think about it. *sigh*
A Grin is a secret openly shared between friends. I see he's smirking with abandon: not even worried about the bit of parsley showing between his teeth.
However, there is something unsettling about a grin, too. Call it genetic memory. It wasn't all so long ago, just a million years, when a grin, and teeth showing, was the very last thing proto-hominid me might've liked to see. Imagine it: proto-hominid me just down from the trees, ambling about the burning hot ground. Can't call it walking, or bipedal locomotion, my hips haven't clicked into place under me yet, but I'm ambling the best I can over the African savanna. Having a grand time foraging. Until I glimpse a grin. Grinning at me. Teeth. Coming through the swaying yellow grass. When it's close enough to see, I'm willing to bet my little life there'll probably be something stuck between its teeth, too.
Silence
My silence is a restful moment of gentle quiet, where I'm at home on the couch, reading a book. Our cat is purring softly in his sleep beside me. I am curled up on the end of the couch with my big fat stuffed cat pillow supporting my back. My husband is across the room on the computer, with only the tapping of keys to break the silence in the room. To me, silence means quiet gentle comfort, where no words are needed.
cacophony
Space
How do the cosmos influence your thoughts?
Thunder
How does his twin, Lightning, strike you?
And how about the rain which escorts her?
An angry rain can last for days, or only moments. It can lash the earth, drown the fields and overflow the rivers. A gentle rain can nurture the earth, sustain the fields to grow our food. The rain can be a blessing or a curse.
There is a wise old phrase: Everything in moderation.
In moderation, the rain keeps the earth alive, fills the rivers and oceans, slakes our thirst. In excess it overflows and drowns. Without it, the earth dies. It also has its' beauty. After a rain there is usually a rainbow.
Rainbow
Color/Colour :}
How does the Witch Doctor influence your perceptions?
oh e oh ah ah tong tang wally wally bing bang
That is the corus to a song my dad used to sing, "My Friend the Witch Doctor". Of course a Witch Doctor is much more than a song corus. He can be a mean and scary boogy man or just an odd eccentric guy of some native tribe that all the people look to because, despite his oddness he actually has wisdom hidden in his oogidy boogidy talk.
Boogy Man
Morning
Now, how does the Evening fall?
Marriage
Compromise
Betrayal
who is Cupid in your mind?
Sigh...
Grin
However, there is something unsettling about a grin, too. Call it genetic memory. It wasn't all so long ago, just a million years, when a grin, and teeth showing, was the very last thing proto-hominid me might've liked to see. Imagine it: proto-hominid me just down from the trees, ambling about the burning hot ground. Can't call it walking, or bipedal locomotion, my hips haven't clicked into place under me yet, but I'm ambling the best I can over the African savanna. Having a grand time foraging. Until I glimpse a grin. Grinning at me. Teeth. Coming through the swaying yellow grass. When it's close enough to see, I'm willing to bet my little life there'll probably be something stuck between its teeth, too.
What's it mean to be Alive?